Tailor-Made

It seems that we’ve approached the age when every single person we have ever met in our entire lives is getting married. We are, of course, happy for them and happy to attend their pre-wedding dinners, engagement lunches, bridal showers, bachelor/bachelerotte parties, traditional engagements and incredibly overblown white weddings. We are more than happy to buy them gifts and put our own jobs and families on hold to help them plan their big day(s). We are thrilled to collect their aso-ebi and celebrate with them in curiously coordinated outfits. (For the uninitiated, "aso-ebi", which literally translates as "family cloth" is fabric distributed by the families of the bride/groom to their guests, who wear them to show solidarity and affiliation). The only problem with said aso-ebi is that, at some point, it must go from raw French lace or simple Ankara to fabulous halter dress or sexy mini-dress . Herein comes a visit to the professional that is dreaded and feared far above any dentist, gynecologist or mortician on the planet; the Nigerian Tailor

If you don’t have war wounds inflicted upon you by a psychotic tailor, you either are not female or you do not live in Lagos. End of story. First of all, there’s the trouble of finding one. You ask your friends because their outfits are generally hip and trendy and mostly well-made. You become alarmed when your friends stop returning your phone-calls and start avoiding you in public. Finally, one of them is kind enough to explain to you that the quickest way to expose yourself as the mannerless, gauche plebeian that you are is to ask another woman who her tailor is. Strike One. You then resort to asking your mother and her friends, but generally the styles that those tailors are capable of are not any that have been seen out in public on the more recent side of 1970. Strike Two. Finally, you decide that you’ll thumb through the pages of the fashion magazines and go with the Designer du Jour. Sure, she might be twice as expensive as anyone that’s been recommended to you thus far, but you’re willing to pay for quality. You are not going to be upstaged at this wedding. Not by anyone. It’s bad enough your dress is going to be made of exactly the same fabric as 665 other guests’ at this shindig.

You get to the designer’s little store on Victoria Island, the front for her mainland operation. Madam is not around (tending to far more important clients, naturally) and her girl will have to take your measurements. Fine, if Madam has put her trust in her, why shouldn’t you? Vamonos! Measurements: taken. Deposit: paid. Fabric: left. All systems go.

You return to the shop two weeks later, as instructed. As a matter of fact, you give them a few days grace period because this is Lagos and things happen and you’re an extremely understanding and benevolent person. The assistant apologizes profusely and tells you that your dress is not ready because the tailor has been taken ill with a violent case of explosive diarrhea, but it’s almost done, please be patient, let him just finish it now now ehn. You are pissed, fuming even, but you figure you’ll sit and wait for it. You make that decision before you spy your fabric, still in its original packaging sitting expectantly in a corner by the wall. That was absolutely the last straw. You call up the designer and are informed by some mysterious character on the phone that she’s off buying fabric in Dubai and won’t be back for another month. It’s just between you and Patience now and she was about to see what happened when you lost all of yours.

You return for your fitting two days later following a sheepish phone-call from Patience. Unfortunately for you, it’s the day of the wedding but you remember observing her as she took your measurements (as you had been warned to do) and she got them just right, so you should be fine. You try on your gorgeous dress -- the one you spent hours and hours poring over seventeen issues of Vogue to find -- and it looks like your favorite part of Old Navy pajamas. The straps are falling off your shoulders, the bust area is pushing your boobs up and flattening your chest at the same time, the sleek pencil skirt is closer to a balloon skirt, the embellishments look like they came off a Christmas tree, the zipper is exposed, the hems are undone, and the dress is not lined. Murphy’s Law is in full effect on your outfit; everything that can go wrong absolutely and most disastrously has.

This monstrosity needs to be taken apart immediately so you grab the tailor by the scruff of his neck and set him to work. He’s clearly still in recovery because he is slow as molasses and by the time your dress has gotten to a state where you would even contemplate wearing it out in polite company, you are receiving calls from your friends on their way home from the wedding, asking if you and the bride are fighting. “If you didn’t want to come to her wedding, why bother taking the aso-ebi in the first place? That’s just really tacky.”

Strike frigging Three.

People spend so much time thinking up catchy names for their hot, new boutiques, but I think every clothes shop in Lagos should be called exactly the same thing; Caveat Emptor. Proceed, dear friends, at your own risk.

Frustrations of a Fattie...err...Foodie.

This is how things went in my house at meal-times. Dinner was ready, you were hungry, you went in the kitchen, grabbed a plate, put food in said plate and ate it. (This routine only varied slightly on Sundays when lunch was served at the table and eaten as a family). In general though, in my house, if you sat around waiting for anyone to invite you to eat, you would die. Quickly, painfully, certainly.

This is why I don’t understand this phenomenon of “Come and join me to eat”. I never noticed it before I left Naija (i\m sure it existed but I never noticed it), but apparently, it is the height of rudeness to grab a plate of food and not offer some of whatever it is to the people in your immediate surroundings. Doesn’t matter what food it is (it could be things easily shared like cookies, or frigging eba and okra), doesn’t matter who the people are (your boss, a complete stranger, your co-worker who is intent on spreading his latest bout of viral plague) and it certainly does not matter if you’re starving and barely have enough food for yourself. The reason it does not matter is that it is also considered the height of rudeness to accept such an offer. So let me get this ish straight. It’s rude of me not to offer but it’s rude of you to accept said offer. So what the hell are we all doing?

I was chastised this week for walking into the office with my regular breakfast sandwich and having the gall to begin to eat it without so much as a thought towards anyone else.

Co-worker: “Nawa o. SongSmith. You’re just a Chop-Alone sha”

Me: “I’m sorry. I’m a what?”

Co-worker: A Chop-Alone. You didn’t even offer anybody. And you know what they say about he who chops alone. He dies alone.”

Me: “Is that right? And how many of your closest friends and family were you planning on taking with you when you die because you offered them a piece of your sandwich?”

Co-worker: **backs away slowly**

I don’t like this custom. I think it’s disingenuous. I think it’s annoying. I think it’s insincere. If I genuinely would like you to have a piece of my Snickers, I will offer it in the hopes that you accept. If I would like to eat my Snickers by myself, I would like to be able to do so without being threatened with a solitary death.

That’s all. Now, I’m hungry. Gimme your lunch. It’s rude of you not to. No home-training.

6 Reasons that 'Hand Sanitizer' is the 2nd most important item in your purse.

I don't understand, mehn. Is it that there are no germs in Nigeria? Or people just go around with that 'Dirty no dey kill African man' nonsense? I see things sometimes, and I'm like, what the ...??!!

Anyways, you have to agree with this list:

1. Solo in your office wipes him runny nose with his right hand, rubs the right hand on his chair, or shirt, and then handles a file that you have to pick up after he's done. *Gag*
   
2. Baba Risi the taxi driver steps out of the cab, while you're in traffic to weewee, then he has to give you change when you're getting down from the cab, and his hand 'has' to brush yours.
   
3. Santos runs his hand through his dandruff infested hair, and grabs your hand tightly, because that's what people do when they salsa - they hold hands.
   
4. Iya Ibukun sells you some boli (roasted plantain), takes time out to 'dislodge a wedgie' and then hands you your change. (I always tell myself that the coal fire burns out all possible germs from the boli. Same goes for roasted corn, and suya).
   
5. Bright, your driver, scratches his underarms/armpit and then opens the door for you from inside the car. What to do when you want to let yourself out at your destination?
   
6. Mr. Mohammed never washes his hands after using the toilet. Yet, he 'must' touch all the door knobs, shelves and furniture that you use.
   

Maybe I'm a germaphobe...

I think the #1 most important this is your eye pencil. I kid. Your cellphone (with credit on it).

A Life Uncommon

We often get incredibly cynical in this town and who can blame us? Those of us lucky enough to remember the last vestiges of Nigeria’s glory days have watched things slowly and steadily devolve into an unrecognizable mess. We’ve watched those few of us brave enough to stand up for what believe in get Dele-Giwa’d and Saro-Wiwa’d. My generation has been taught to sit down and shut up, to get with it or get the hell out.

Much to my own chagrin, I became comfortable with that notion as well. I moved to Yankee and when there was a cause I believed in, I signed petitions, I hoisted signs, I put my money where my mouth was. But as soon as I moved back to Las Gidi, I backed away into my quiet corner, content to accept the status quo in exchange for the safety of my life and limb.

This is why when a fellow Youth Corper asked me to join in her efforts to abolish the ridiculous pregnancy tests we were all subjected to at camp (refresh your memory here), I was skeptical. “Who would listen? Who would care? Who would do anything? Would the three or five of us be able to kick up enough of a fuss as to a) get the attention of anyone in power and/or b) get them to give a rat’s ass?”

Ladies and gents, it is with incredible pride that I tell you today that, according to the NYSC newsletter, owing to “media backlash”, the pregnancy tests are no longer being offered as of the first batch of 2010. Following articles and editorials published in The Guardian and Next newspapers and incredible support from online readers, NYSC has been forced to cancel this farce with immediate effect and automatic alacrity (shout-out to New Masquerade!). They didn’t go down without a fight, I should point out. The State Coordinator issued a rebuttal to the newspaper claiming that our original article was full of lies and that the tests were performed in the most hygienic of conditions and with the utmost care. (The poor dear probably really believed that, as a hurriedly-dug hole in the ground most likely represents the height of sanitary sophistication to him.) Following an even angrier response to his rebuttal than to the original article itself, the pregnancy tests were quietly and swiftly done away with.

I’ll leave you with a line from a song that has been on repeat in my head ever since I moved back home and have been confronted with “principle versus practicality” decisions almost every day.

“And lend your voices only to sounds of freedom
No longer lend your strength to that which you wish to be free from
Fill your lives with love and bravery
and you shall lead
A life uncommon.”

-- Jewel

We’re either a part of the solution or we’re a part of the problem. No middle-ground. Here’s hoping future NYSC batches will continue to pay it forward. Maybe we can snatch back this program, if not the whole damn country, from the grip of ineptitude, greed, cronyism, nepotism, vulgarity and flat-out stupidity

How to Lose a Woman in 10 Minutes

Omo, mehn. Naija guys, step your game up.

There are obviously exceptions (and if you’re sophisticated enough to be reading or contributing to this blog, you’re probably one of them J), but in general, Naija guys’ pimp-game has obviously been involved in a ghastly auto accident and is in need of desperate emergency resuscitation .

I’ve heard this complaint from many of my friends, so I know it’s not just me. You can’t be friendly with a Naija guy. You can’t be playful or teasing, or heavens forbid, flirtatious. If you make this fatal rookie mistake, you may find yourself the unwilling recipient of a marriage proposal, the unwitting filer of a sexual harassment lawsuit or the grateful beneficiary of an effective restraining order.

Case in point:

One afternoon, I came home from Abuja, where I went to register for the ridiculous NYSC. My neighbor (who I do not know) was standing outside and my mother chose to engage him as she knew he had finished NYSC not long before. He was friendly, funny even, so I started to let my guard down. He kept throwing out stupid compliments like “Ah, by the time you go to camp now, all their heads will just scatter mehn. All those guys will not even know what to do.” Hehehehe, whatever, weirdo. Polite conversation ends and this guy is on some “What’s your name on Facebook?” See, I would have responded with, “I’m not on Facebook” had he not followed his question with, “I see you in your window as you’re checking your facebook in the evening”. WHAT, weirdo? ?? I politely replied with my name (because honestly, how do you come back from the shock?) and went about my business.

That evening, I was alerted via email that Stanley something-or-the-other had added me on Facebook. No big deal, I’ll accept it when next I go online, I thought. The next morning, I get a message that says, “Why haven’t you added me? Add me so we can chat”. My intention was to add his weird ass and put him on the most limited of limited profiles, but somehow in my haste, I made all the changes but forgot to hit “Save All Changes” or whatnot. I was away from the computer for a bit, and by the time I got back the next afternoon, had no fewer than 12 notifications courtesy of Stanely Something-Or-The –Other. Comments on pictures, wall posts, messages, comments on wall posts, liking of statuses – this dude had completely defecated all over my damn profile. The content ranged from “U ar so hot”, “U ar so wonderful” to a message simply containing his phone number. He was blocked and deleted with a quickness, but it got me thinking. Do Naija women in this country respond to this sort of tomfoolery? It has to work or they’d have stopped doing it, right?

Nuance, subtlety, suave sophistication – this is all that is needed. You don’t have to be James Bond, but please don’t be creepy-stalker-guy either. It is not necessary to text me at 7am talking about “How is your day?” Negro, it hasn’t even started yet! It is not necessary for you to request to hang out every spare moment I have. Dude, I have friends! What do you think this is? It is not necessary for you offer to buy me recharge card. It’s 2010. Let’s face it; I probably make more money than you anyway. It’s not necessary to call me repeatedly when your last 82 calls have gone unanswered. You’ve seen He’s Just Not That Into You? It works both ways.

The Nigerian women I know are smart, complex, funny. financially independent powerhouses. We want to be wooed, not worn down. We need you to take charge, but not be overpowering. We need you to be decisive, but not inconsiderate. We need you to be sensitive, but not weak. We need you to be sweet, but not sappy. We need you to be playful, but not childish. We need you to be sexy, but not smarmy. (see Javier Bardem in Vicky Cristina Barcelona for inspiration). Pay attention, boys. The old rules no longer apply.

The Fabulous Life ... of Nigerian Celebrities

(I should pay royalties to E!)

I must start this post with a small tutorial. Nigerian celebrity-ship is nothing like what you're used to in the Western world. Celebrities abroad are defined by what they do - movies, TV, music, fashion/modelling (sometimes), etc. Celebrities in Nigeria are defined by who they know, what their last name is, where they party at, what kinda clothes they wear, how many times they've travelled out of the country, what kinda car they drive, etc. Celebrities in Nigeria may not be known by everyone, as long as the tabloids know them, we're straight.

Classic example: I was at a bridal shower last weekend, and we played a game called 'Celebrity Couples'. The idea was to write the names of as many celebrity couples as possible before the aloted time ran out. While we were scoring one another's responses, there was a heated debate about a certain Nigerian Celebrity couple. There was one other person (besides the person who listed them), who knew about the couple. When asked why they were celebrities, she responded - 'I see them in CityPeople*, all the time!' Gbam! (That's my new favorite exclamation. Lol).

I've been trying to figure out how it works, and I think I have a theory now. Say you attend a show in Lagos, a fashion show for example, where all the big names - Stella Damasus, Patrick Doyle, Genevieve Nnaji, Dare Art-Alade, etc - are present, you can be sure that paparazzi will be there. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how important the Celebrity status is to you), you're looking supa dupa fly, and you get a few of your photos taken, when the photo is to be printed in his tabloid, the photo editor makes very good use of the '2° of seperation' phenomenon, finds out your life history and publishes it. He's also smart enough to put in juicy gist that'll make people want to find out more about you. You've become a celebrity, just like that!

Now, I don't have issues with people who like to be in the public eye, I'm just a little concerned about the kind of spending/lifestyle 'skills', that mark the celebrity territory. I understand that there are so many stupendously rich people in Nigeria, who can spending millions of dollars (yes, dollars), without blinking. I also know that there are those people who apparently live this fabulous life 'on credit'. I only have one question - WHY?!

Why's it important to spend so much money on the lace *aso-ebi for someone else's daughter's wedding? Why is it a taboo to 're-rock' outfits or jewelry or accessories (they weren't made to be disposable anyways)? Why, oh dear me, why is what other people think about your outfit important (except you need the Fashion Police of course)?

Sigh.

*City People is a popular Nigerian Tabloid
*Aso-ebi - literal meaning 'clothes/outfit of the family. Refers to outfit worn by friends and family of the celebrants at events - weddings, birthdays, burials, etc.

Vernacular

My parents always comment that one of the mistakes that they made while raising my siblings and I is that they didn't make Yoruba our first language. (They're trying to repair that now, because we read the Yoruba Bible and Daily Guide every morning at devotion. I must say that it's working).

When I was younger though, so many kids thought it was razz to speak in your mother tongue. Everyone wanted a British accent; and the 'wrist dangle' to go with it.

Fast forward to March 2009 when I was at NYSC camp, everyone spoke Yoruba! (We were at camp in Oyo State). I remember getting into an argument with one naughty girl who want to bump my water pail from the line, and I gave her a piece of my mind - in clean unadultrated Yoruba! I was so proud of myself.

It's very interesting that understanding, and speaking, the native language of wherever you're at is rather necessary for progress. I remember a friend of mine telling me that he wasn't able to rub minds with the important powers, and climb up the ladder, at his pretigious job in Abuja because he didn't speak Hausa very well. I thought he was being delusional till I started noticing it for myself. Some traders at the market in Festac won't be nice to you if you don't speak Igbo. The money changers at Federal Palace Hotel respond to their Hausa speaking customers better. The taxi driver who took me to Festac one day, dropped the attitude and started smiling at me when he heard me speak Yoruba on the phone. (I might have paid N300.00 less if I'd negotiated the price in Yoruba).

I have also heard that when you put your (real) foreign, or an I-have-hot-yam-in-my-mouth, accent foot forward, it's very likely that people turn their noses up at your because they believe you're being pretentious and rubbing your traveller self (or foreign movie watcher self, depending on where you gained your funny accent from), in their faces.

I can't say that it is fair that people are responded to based on how they sound. I just think it' interesting that as much as we want to sound like the foreigners, it's how well we know our own local languages that counts. I have a friend whose accent is British, laced with American, and they're both genuine. (Lol). He raps Yoruba sharply too. It's real sexy.